


Angel Of Mercy

by Vorox3



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angel of Mercy, F/F, Pharmercy, Pre-Relationship, rocket angel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 14:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7226257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vorox3/pseuds/Vorox3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel of Mercy (Criminology): A rare type of criminal offender who is usually employed as a caregiver and intentionally harms or kills people under their care. The angel of mercy is often in a position of power and may decide the victim would be better off if they no longer suffered from whatever severe illness is plaguing them. This person then uses their knowledge to kill the victim. In some cases, as time goes on, this behavior escalates to encapsulate the healthy and the easily treated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel Of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, folks. New story. This time Pharmercy. Just like the game, this story was salvaged from a previous concept that didn't quite work without a few tweaks. Enjoy Chapter 1!

Fareeha Amari stood outside the hospital room, peering through the observation window with a cautious eye. A weight of a hundred earths lugged her down, making the powerful thumping in her chest profound. Nausea snaked around her insides and choked her spine; she was tired, nervous, sick, dizzy, and numb all at once. Apprehensive eyes scanned over the limp body in the bed, teetering over every mark, every spot, every detail. She knew she could have stared as long as she wanted; the body inside the room was out cold. And probably was going to be for a long while. Fareeha would have kept her place until the body showed any sign of life, she was so focused on it, that she nearly jumped when she felt a rather large hand gently engulf her shoulder.

“Come. You cannot be anxious like this on an empty stomach,” A german-accented voice spoke; it was supportive, almost in a fatherly way. Reinhardt Wilhelm. The aged man who charged into battle in giant, gleaming silver armor. The selfless, honorable adventurer, who’d give away his life to save another. 

“Com’on, luv. It ain’t good for you to brood about ‘is all day,” another voice chirped, this one overwhelmingly British. Lena Oxton. The cheerful young ex-pilot anchored into time and best friends with a hyperintelligent gorilla from the moon. Full of spunk and willing to fight for a cause.

Fareeha sighed and bowed her head, silently admitting defeat to their earnest requests. She was tired and didn’t have the energy to fight anyone else for the next month, physically or verbally. The hand on her shoulder turned her away from the window and began guiding her down the corridor of the HQ. She looked over her shoulder to peer into the room one last time.

* * *

 

A dozen or two swift strides and they were out of the medical wing, which seemed right for its small size. The HQ was a singular fort recovered by the illegally reactivated Overwatch task force, adequate enough for the meager ensemble of agents. A half dozen infirmary beds, a shift rotating mess hall, the perfect amount of bunks, and an open area just about right for training exercises were all they needed for their day to day tasks. The security of the fort was set up by Torbjörn with a hand from Satya, so there was no one unauthorized waltzing in, at least not without some effort.

A turn here and a turn there and the trio ended up in the mess hall. It was a medium sized room with a high ceiling, about eleven feet, th at spanned wide from the entry way. There were eight rectangular tables throughout, each able to seat six people, but why they h ad so many tables, she didn’t know. There wer en’t enough agents to fill them, and new agents would come slowly, if ever.

“Lena, go get a few seats for us. I wi ll get the lunch,” Reinhardt said in his usual esteemed tone, though there was a hint of gloom within his words.

“Right, big guy. Com’on, luv, this way.” Lena pulled the larger woman along with a gentle tug.

Fareeha hated this kind of treatment. It was if they were leading a problematic child rather than a soldier. But knew she couldn’t be angry at them for it; they were just being cautious, as was necessary when attending to something fragile. Her stone face was doing its best to mask how emotionally weak she currently was.

“She’s gonna be alright. You don’t ‘ave-ta worry about her.” The Brit patted Fareeha’s back as she sat them both at a table.

Fareeha let out the breath she was holding in a sigh. “I know, I know…” She felt the softness of her voice as it trailed off. “But, I can’t not worry. Not with my-?”

“Feelings?” Lena finished for her, cutting away the courage Fareeha usually had to build up to say the words. Lena recalled the copious amount of time it took for the typically well spoken soldier to confess her love for Angela to her. It was an entire hour ordeal. Fareeha invited Lena to her quarters to speak about it one day and spent the most of the time trying to squeeze out a simple sentence. It was an incredibly painful display.

Fareeha let the table meet her face to hide a blush Lena already knew was there. “...Yes.” 

Lena blew some brown hair out of her eyes and shrugged. “I don’t ‘ave any idea why you’re so embarrassed ‘bout it.”

“Soldiers aren’t permitted to have relationships. It’s dischargeable,” explained Fareeha, muffled by the table.

“One.” Lena held out a finger only to see Fareeha still slumped over on the table like an exhausted little kid; arms were dangling freely at her sides and her head was top heavy on her shoulders. She rolled her eyes, pulled Fareeha out of her defeated posture, and restarted. 

“One, no one said anything ‘bout relationships, luv. Two, this ain’t an official operation. And you aren’t with those Helix mates anymore either. So what’s with the excuses?”

What’s with the excuses?

Fareeha remained silent, her mind churning about the lighthearted words. There were  _ several _ “excuses.” She couldn’t just put her emotions into the fray and make herself vulnerable. What if Angela rejected her? What if she avoided her? What if Fareeha cut open an old wound or just made a new one for herself?

Before she could speak a tray was slammed in front of her jolting her out of her reverie  with a flinch. She blinked her now wide eyes at the contents of the tray: a sealed drink, lazily mashed potatoes, a nut mush that appeared to be dog vomit, and neutral colored yogurt sat there un-appetizingly. Just easy-to-make foods with high calories and nutrients, made for the body rather than for the taste buds.

“Eat. You need it,” Reinhardt boomed as he took his place across from her and Lena. He set his own tray down and slid another to Lena. He wore an innocent smile of accomplishment that could warm anyone’s heart, even though he was a 61 year old, seven and a half foot tall behemoth that could break you in half with the flick of his finger.

“We’ll chat about ‘is later...” Lena mumbled with a mouthful of potatoes.

* * *

 

“Do you remember your name?”

The words went seemingly in one ear and out the other. Her head was so blurred and so dizzy; all her senses were wrong. The bed she laid on felt miles away; words and noises echoed a hundred times more than they should have; her vision was distorted and clouded with blobs of color; the room seemed to be drowned in a scent of lilac and death.

“Do you remember your name?”

Those words again. This time they tumbled around in her skull instead of flying right out. Her mind’s frail tendrils worked to wrap themselves around the sounds and choke the meaning out of them. Re-mem-ber. N-Name. The obscurity in her vision began to let up as images slowly flashed into her lame mind. Explosions and fire. Hooks and guns. Screams. Screams for a name. Was it her name?

“M...Mercy?” Her voice cracked in its rusted disused tone.

“Close enough for now. Do you know where you are?”

As her body recalibrated itself, a consistent beeping emerged from the confusion. A beep then a short silence, then a beep again. The gears in Mercy’s brain churned back to life as they processed the new information. She was craned up on an angled bed. The blob in her vision resolved into the form of an older man. The room was white and smelled of lilac and death.

She knew this. She  _ should  _ know this.

Finally, Mercy concluded, “A hospital.”

“Good enough.” She now recognized the voice as low and growly- and familiar. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

She felt her body stiffen as she searched her thoughts. Her mind was acting as safeguard, blocking her from her most recent thoughts.  _ Trauma, _ she sluggishly thought. Nonetheless, she pressed on deeper into the locked memory. There wasn’t much she could smuggle past her own brain; there was a bed like this one- but it only smelled of death. She had no recollection of where the bed was, just blackness. All she could go off were her past senses, of which there weren’t many. 

“Pain. Restrainment. High pitched whines-”

“Before... that” The man was quick to stop her train of spoken thought, “The last you remember before that.”

Mercy squinted as if her memories were small letters written on the ceiling. Her mind was still slow and took its sweet time to tick over. 

The old man nearly jumped when Mercy flung herself upright in a rush of panic. He was instantly at her side, whispering words to try to subdue her craze. She was breaking out into a cold sweat with her eyes wide in fear, staring into the quick flashes of mental images of a bloody battle.

“The ambush! Reyes! The Talon!” Mercy shouted

“It’s alright, Angela! The battle is over! None of us got hurt!” The man grabbed her by the shoulders. “None of us. Got hurt. You did well…”

After about a minute and paper bag later, Mercy was calm and attentive. The adrenaline from her panic attack had kick started her brain into high gear. She glanced up at the man, who she now realized was her rough and gruff commander, Jack Morrison. He had his mask off, revealing the large scar that wrapped itself around the front of his square, chiseled face. His eyes were bloodshot red from exhaustion as his drooped shoulders and messy grey hair exaggerated. The relieved smile that curved up on the edge of his lips contradicted with his rugged appearance, giving some hope to the scene.

Jack sat back into his chair and ran his hands down his face, attempting to keep the will to sleep at bay. After that, a long silence. They just stared at one another awkwardly, waiting for someone to say something.

Angela cleared her throat to break the ice. “Were you telling the truth?” She asked.

“What?”

“You said, no one got hurt. Was that a lie?” There was hint of guilt lingering in the blue of her eyes. 

“Depends.” He said, “Do you count yourself?”

There was another pause before she spoke.

“What happened? How’d I get here?” 

“You don’t remember? Nothing?” Jack’s gaze now began to wander the room. A furrowed brow insinuating a deep thought brewing.

“I just remember getting hit with...something… A gas maybe. Then I blacked out.”

Jack stood up, his shoulders now pushed back with his back straight. The smile he once wore was replaced with a scowl, not particularly aimed at anyone.

“Jack?” Angela tilted her head.

Jack glared into the wall as it were his worst enemy.  She was about to call his name again when he turned to meet her eyes with a serious disposition. 

“You were a Talon prisoner for two weeks.”

Angela nearly felt her stop.

Two weeks in the hands of the Talon. And not  _ one memory. _

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder: I do no own any of these characters. They're all property of Blizzard Entertainment.
> 
> Please leave a comment or some kudos!
> 
> Love, 
> 
> ~Vox


End file.
